


Orestes Drunk

by whooves



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Drunkenness, Getting Together, M/M, hangovers + throwing up, pylades surprisingly sober, sickfic kind of if you count taking care of a hungover enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 19:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whooves/pseuds/whooves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you think he would?” Enjolras asks Joly, who nods fervently. Grantaire looks at his hands and doesn’t say anything, because he’s not exactly sure what’s going on. Courfeyrac knocks into his shoulder with a bright grin and drapes an arm over Grantaire’s shoulders.</p><p>“Enjolras, please,” he starts, “of course he will. Won’t you, Grantaire?” Courfeyrac’s breath has the distinct smell of vodka paired with something fruity and Grantaire smiles while steadying him with one arm. It would seem that he’s the only person left sober for a change. What a role reversal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orestes Drunk

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Abigail for editing, and for a few of the ending sentences. Much love.

When Grantaire shows up at Jehan’s house party, he’s clutching an unopened bottle of shitty white wine and wondering if anyone would notice if he just went back home and watched three seasons of the Walking Dead instead of walking inside the door. It’s winter break and he’s supposed to be lying comatose on his couch with a bag of Doritos and a bottomless glass of apple juice or sake or whatever he can find hiding in his cupboards.

He loves his friends; it’s nothing like that. He just knows that after he subjects himself to this madhouse for the night, he’ll have to hole up in his room for a week and try to get some energy back; socializing is exhausting. Before he can even knock on the door, it flies open, and Jehan crashes into him, enveloping him in a hug. 

“Grantaire!” he squeaks, before pulling back. “Come in, oh come in you have to see this,” and he tugs Grantaire forward through the hallway to the back of the house where everyone’s dancing and drinking and sprawled out in the living room. The music is loud and he can feel the bass through the floor. He manages to drop the bottle of wine on a flat, stable surface and lets Jehan yank him through a mass of people to the other side of the room, where he’s just in time to see Enjolras throw back a shot of something blue.

Enjolras.

Shot.

 _Blue_.

Grantaire’s brain nearly short circuits at the sight of the slender curve of his neck, the redness of his cheeks, the way his blonde curls slip haphazardly down his brow. Enjolras is drunk and laughing, and when Grantaire joins the circle, Enjolras giggles and covers his mouth, sharing a pointed look with Joly.

“See,” Enjolras whispers, “I told you.” He grins like he has a secret and rocks back and forth on his feet, nearly stumbling over. Combeferre reaches out a hand so he doesn’t fall, his cheeks also flushed.

“Woah there, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras giggles some more.

“Do you think he would?” Enjolras asks Joly, who nods fervently. Grantaire looks at his hands and doesn’t say anything, because he’s not exactly sure what’s going on. Courfeyrac knocks into his shoulder with a bright grin and drapes an arm over Grantaire’s shoulders.

“Enjolras, please,” he starts, “of course he will. Won’t you, Grantaire?” Courfeyrac’s breath has the distinct smell of vodka paired with something fruity and Grantaire smiles while steadying him with one arm. It would seem that he’s the only person left sober for a change. What a role reversal.

“Won’t I what?” He finally asks. Enjolras marches up to him and shoves Courfeyrac’s arm off his shoulder with a pout. Clutching at Grantaire’s hand, he tugs him the opposite way.

“Dance with me?” he asks breathlessly, his face very much in Grantaire’s personal face space. It’s not unwelcome, it’s just a bit...new. Grantaire takes a moment to adjust. Okay. He can do this.

“Sure?” he says, trying to sound sure of himself but ultimately failing. “I haven’t even had a drink yet,” he mutters.

“I have,” Enjolras sing-songs.

“I can tell,” Grantaire laughs, and puts his arms around Enjolras’s waist so he doesn’t fall over.

“I’ve had six,” Enjolras continues, his breath warm against the shell of Grantaire’s ear, as he presses their bodies together - or, tries to. It ends up more like Enjolras seeming like he’s trying to sleep standing up, using Grantaire as a bed. Again, not unwelcome, just new. Hell, Grantaire has only been here for six minutes and he already has an armful of drunk Enjolras, which never happens.

“Seriously? Six?” he asks, pulling back enough to see Enjolras stick out his tongue. It is, unsurprisingly, blue. Enjolras crosses his eyes and tries to touch the tip of his tongue to his nose. It is adorable and Grantaire would melt if he weren’t the only thing holding Enjolras up. They’re not so much dancing as swaying off-beat and yelling near each other’s ears in order to be heard. Enjolras’s hands lace behind Grantaire’s neck and pulls their faces near, Enjolras’s sweaty forehead dipping to rest against Grantaire’s cheek. He can feel Enjolras’s giggles shake his body and then soft kisses pressed against his neck.

Six doesn’t seem like a lot, but Enjolras hardly weighs anything, slender as he is, and he never drinks. There’s no tolerance and nowhere for the alcohol to go. Grantaire really isn’t surprised he’s sloshed after six, or after the only six he remembers.

But he’s been here for less than fifteen minutes and already he’s confused beyond words. His cheeks are aflame and he catches sight of Bossuet and Musichetta dancing to the side of them. Musichetta wolf-whistles and Grantaire is sure his face darkens a shade or two of red. Enjolras is sucking on the underside of his jaw and it is _very_ pleasant, but he pries Enjolras away and noses at his cheek instead, trying to catch his breath.

“Not tonight, Enjolras,” he says, and Enjolras clutches him harder.

“Why?” he whines, again letting most of his weight rest on Grantaire. Grantaire staggers, but remains upright.

“Because you’re drunk,” Grantaire says into his ear.

“So?” Enjolras is grinning at him now from a close distance, rubbing their noses together. It’s so sickeningly adorable Grantaire can hardly stand it, so he removes Enjolras’s hands from around his neck and clasps them both in his own, leading the man outside onto Jehan’s enclosed back porch. It’s freezing outside, so Grantaire grabs someone’s jacket from near the door. Enjolras will be just fine as he’s got a hefty liquor blanket by now. They stumble outside and Enjolras falls, taking Grantaire down with them.

Well, the floor is as good a place as any to sit, he supposes. It’s less loud out here, but the music still comes through, muffled. 

“Are you okay?” he asks Enjolras, who’s looking at the floor like it’s personally offended him.

“Yeah,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Just dizzy.”

“Ah, come here,” Grantaire says, and gets him upright, sitting next to Grantaire. Grantaire puts a tentative hand on his waist as Enjolras wobbles back and forth and finally slumps into Grantaire’s side. he drapes the jacket across his lap to keep some of the warmth, as Enjolras has now taken possession of his arm and doesn’t seem to want to remove himself from pressing close against Grantaire’s side.

“Stay,” Enjolras hums. Grantaire chuckles.

“I just got here,” he says, “where would I go?”

At this, Enjolras smiles, and leans his head against Grantaire’s shoulder, closing his eyes.

Courfeyrac pokes his head out the door and leaps to stand in front of them.

“Is he okay?” he slurs, looking concernedly down at Enjolras. “He had a lot.” Grantaire tightens his arm around Enjolras’s waist and cranes his neck to look at the man.

“His breathing is okay, his temperature is normal, and his color seems fine.” He prods Enjolras. “You awake?”

“Don’t poke me,” Enjolras giggles. “I’m ticklish there.”

“And he’s still conscious enough to make sentences. I don’t think he has alcohol poisoning, but I’m going to keep an eye on him. Can you get me a glass of wine or water or something, I don’t really care, I just need -” Courfeyrac waves him off.

“Yeah, no problem.” True to his words, three minutes later Courfeyrac stumbles back out with an uncorked bottle of wine - not the one Grantaire had brought, though. There’s about half left, and it’s the good red stuff. Grantaire would go as far as to assume it had been pilfered out of Jehan’s parents’ stash earlier this evening. He sets it down beside Grantaire with a wink, and joins the party again with an exuberant shout, echoed by what seems to be half of the party. He trusts Courfeyrac to tell the others that they’re okay.

Enjolras is quietly slurring his words into Grantaire’s shoulder, murmured phrases that Grantaire can’t quite catch.

“Speak up, Enjolras,” he says.

“Said I don’t want to go home,” Enjolras says.

“You’re not going _anywhere_ ,” Grantaire laughs. “You are going to sleep on Jehan’s couch. You’re not allowed to drive until you don’t feel nauseous anymore tomorrow.”

“‘M not gonna feel nauseous,” he argues weakly, but Grantaire is already shaking with laughter.

“Sure, sure,” he says. “Whatever you say.” Enjolras bats at him with his hand, frowning. Grantaire catches his hand in his own and twines their fingers together. He won’t let Enjolras make any big mistakes where Grantaire is concerned, but cuddling and handholding is normal in their little group of friends, and Enjolras can allow Grantaire this much, especially when he’s playing the role of Enjolras’s keeper for the night.

“Can I sleep here?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire checks his phone. They’ve been out here for more than half an hour, but Enjolras had drank a lot.

“Can you stay awake for fifteen more minutes? For me?”

Enjolras lifts his head up and stares into Grantaire’s eyes. 

“For you?” Enjolras asks. “Anything,” and his smile is brilliant and Grantaire is breathless and Enjolras leans into kiss him but misses his mouth entirely and ends up kissing the side of his nose instead. They both immediately dissolve into laughter and Grantaire takes a long drink from the bottle. He’s not even close to being tipsy, but it’s steadying to have something to do with his hand and his mouth so he doesn’t grasp Enjolras’s face and bring their lips together, like he’s denied twice already tonight.

While Enjolras tells Grantaire a story involving Combeferre, onions, and a stepladder, he doesn’t bother to focus on the story; it doesn’t make any sense. Instead, Grantaire focuses on the weight of Enjolras’s head on his shoulder and the feel of knotted golden hair against his neck.

“Can I go to sleep now?” Enjolras asks, head lolling on Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Sure,” Grantaire laughs, “if you can fall asleep with the chill.”

“‘M okay,” he sighs out, snuggling into Grantaire’s side. It’s precious, and Grantaire wants to wrap him up in blankets and kiss his forehead and tuck him in. Actually, he’ll probably get the chance to, since he’s the only one at this party who seems to be any amount of sober. Even Combeferre was stumbling around inside earlier.

In the few minutes of sleepy Enjolras that follow, Grantaire ends up with a lapful of blonde revolutionary. Enjolras is curled up against his chest in a ball that looks too small to be the lanky guy he knows Enjolras to be.

Grantaire takes deep breaths and tries to remain as calm as possible about the situation, because Enjolras has a hand fisted in his shirt and one slung around his waist. The strangeness of the situation wears off after a few minutes, and when he’s sure Enjolras is out, Grantaire amuses himself by playing Tetris on his phone.

It doesn’t feel quite as cold, with Enjolras wrapped around him.

When the party has quieted down considerably, Grantaire decides it’s safe to re-enter the house and picks up Enjolras bridal-style. He’s lighter than he looks, and Grantaire sets him on the couch as gently as possible, while a sleepy Jehan looks on from the cushy armchair.

“Is he okay?” Jehan asks, eyes fluttering shut.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, “just had a bit too much, I think. Where are your blankets?”

“In the basket,” Jehan points to the wicker basket to the side of the couch. “Bring me one too,” he says through a yawn.

Grantaire rolls his eyes, but tucks Jehan into the reclined armchair with a truly hideous patchwork quilt.

“Where are the others?” he asks.

“Some in the basement, Courfeyrac and Combeferre are in my bed, and I think Joly fell asleep on the kitchen floor. You can sleep in my parents bed if you promise to make it tomorrow morning.” Grantaire chuckles at this, and pats Jehan’s head.

“Thanks, Jehan. Sleep well.” He grabs another blanket, which he spreads out on Enjolras and tucks around his shoulders. Enjolras makes a happy sleepy noise and buries his face in the couch cushions. Grantaire smiles down at him for a long moment. He probably won't even remember this in the morning - which could be a blessing or a curse, depending on how accurately drunk Enjolras portrays sober Enjolras's feelings.

Grantaire tries not to think about it and trudges upstairs to the only unoccupied room, snagging Jehan's iPhone charger along the way. The mirror in the hallway shows a few dark bruises on his neck where Enjolras had gotten a bit overeager on the dance floor, but Grantaire shoves those thoughts out of his head as soon as they enter and continues down the hall to the master bedroom.

Jehan's parents' bed is a huge king-sized affair and Grantaire sinks into it gratefully. His back aches from holding a sleeping Enjolras in his lap for an evening, but he hardly notices after a minute of sleeping on what feels like clouds. It only takes him a few more minutes to drift off completely.

*

When Grantaire wakes, his phone proclaims it to be just before noon and the house is still quiet. He isn’t surprised; the party hadn’t wound down until after three. He makes the bed and then makes his way down to the kitchen through the living room, smiling at Enjolras and Jehan still curled up on the sofa and armchair, respectively.

First of all, coffee. Before anything else, Grantaire turns on the coffee maker, and fishes out a mug. He also locates toast and manages to make himself a meager breakfast while waiting for his friends to awaken. He also fills a glass of water and places it on the table next to the couch, anticipating a nauseous Enjolras.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac are the first to awake and appear, trudging down the stairs with sleepy smiles, and begging Grantaire for coffee when they reach the kitchen table.

“You are a god among men,” Courfeyrac mutters as Grantaire pours him a liberal amount into his mug.

“Surely you have me mistaken,” Grantaire says, but smiles anyways. Combeferre’s head hits the kitchen table and he groans.

“Tylenol?” he asks. “Advil? Ibuprofen? Anything?” Grantaire laughs, but rifles around in the cabinets until he finds the medicine and vitamins, fishing out two each for Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who toast him before swallowing them.

“Looks like the two of you had fun,” Grantaire says mildly, while washing his plate and pushing more toast into the toaster. A warm weight drapes itself around his back and Jehan hums pleasantly into his neck.

“You beautiful human being,” he says, “you found the coffee.” Grantaire laughs and shakes him off.

“Are you all really so attached to your coffee that you’re willing to exalt me just for making you a caffeinated beverage? It’s almost past noon, in case you hadn’t realized.”

In answer, Jehan steals Grantaire’s mug and drains it. 

“Is that a hickey?” he drawls with a smirk. Grantaire’s hand immediately goes to his neck, and he flushes red.

Thankfully, there’s a loud groan from the living room, interrupting that line of conversation. Jehan pops out of the kitchen, only to start laughing at whatever he sees in the other room. When he re-enters the kitchen, Grantaire looks at him inquisitively.

“I think Enjolras is suffering from an extreme overindulgence.”

“Shit, he’s awake?” Grantaire asks.

“Yeah,” Jehan says, “he-” but Grantaire just rushes out of the room, dragging the smaller trash can with him. He only barely makes it to the couch when an extremely pale Enjolras rolls halfway off the couch and starts retching. He grips the can with both hands and Grantaire places a steadying hand on his shoulder as Enjolras empties the contents of his stomach. When he finally stops dry heaving, Grantaire helps him sit up on the couch, and pointedly ignores his watering eyes, instead handing him a tissue to clean himself up as best as possible.

“What the fuck,” Enjolras says, and closes his eyes.

“I know,” Grantaire says. “Would you like some water?” Enjolras just groans in response, but Grantaire grabs the water glass from the table anyways, and hands it to Enjolras.

“I feel terrible,” Enjolras croaks out, and wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says softly, “too much alcohol will do that to you.” Enjolras glares but it softens after a moment. “Think you can keep a few Tylenol down?” Grantaire offers him a few pills, which Enjolras takes gratefully.

“Why are you being so nice about this?” Enjolras says, closing his eyes and leaning back against the couch. Grantaire shrugs, even though Enjolras can’t see him do so.

“I know how hard it is,” he says simply, and sits on the couch next to Enjolras. “Can I get you anything?” Enjolras sighs, and blinks his eyes open to glance at Grantaire. His eyes flutter shut again.

“No,” he says. And after a moment, “I am sorry for hanging off you last night. Rather extensively, from the bits I can recall.” A flush colors his cheeks, and Grantaire chuckles.

“Quite alright,” Grantaire says, as calmly as possible. “Don’t apologize, you make a rather adorable drunk.” Enjolras turns even pinker, scrunching his face together. He groans.

“I feel miserable and embarrassed. I’m so sorry about,” and he makes a vague gesture around Enjolras’s neck. Grantaire blushes again.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Again, don’t apologize.”

“I’m sorry drunk me is very affectionate and eager to get into your pants. Sober me is much better at controlling that particular urge.” He immediately slaps a hand over his mouth.

Grantaire stops, breath knocked from his chest, and turns to Enjolras with wide eyes. Enjolras lets out something Grantaire would classify as a whimper.

“And hungover me is just as bad as drunk me. Can we just forget I said that?” Enjolras groans.

“Absolutely not,” Grantaire says cheerfully. “But I will definitely hold you for a while if that will make your hangover more bearable.”

“You two are sickening,” Courfeyrac says from the doorway, his tone delighted. Enjolras lets out a growl, which quickly turns into more of a wounded sound as he clutches his stomach again.

Now that Grantaire knows he’s welcome, by the pink of Enjolras’s cheeks and his shy gaze, he wraps his arms around the trembling blonde and pulls him into his lap. Enjolras immediately hides his face against Grantaire’s neck, and Jehan giggles. Combeferre only lets out an exaggerated sigh.

“I hate you all,” Enjolras says, into the collar of Grantaire’s shirt. Grantaire wraps his arms around Enjolras lightly, and hands him the glass of water.

“No you don’t. Now drink your water.” Enjolras obliges the request and drains the glass. He then closes his eyes and presses his face into Grantaire’s neck.

“I hate you,” he says, “and when I don’t feel like I’ve spent eight hours on a rollercoaster, I am going to tell you how much I hate you.”

“Oh,” Jehan says, still from the doorway. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Courfeyrac and Combeferre both snicker at his comments. Enjolras and Grantaire both glare, Grantaire’s arms tightening around Enjolras protectively.

“Let’s leave them be,” Combeferre says, thankfully. “I think we need a nap.” He herds Courfeyrac and Jehan upstairs as they mumble affirmatives.

Enjolras and Grantaire are left alone, and Grantaire combs his fingers through Enjolras’s slightly tangled hair.

“I am mortified,” Enjolras mumbles weakly. Grantaire presses a kiss to his hairline.

“Don’t be,” he says. Enjolras groans again and Grantaire laughs.

“I went about this in the completely wrong way,” Enjolras starts.

“I don’t think you meant to do it at all, though,” Grantaire says with a smile. “But that’s okay.”

“Can we talk about this tomorrow? Or possibly never? I think I’m going to throw up again.” Enjolras grabs for the trashcan.

“I suppose,” Grantaire says, his heart blossoming in his chest. Nothing makes its way out of Enjolras’s stomach, but he dry heaves over the can nonetheless. Grantaire strokes his back, a warm smile on his face.

When Enjolras leans back against Grantaire’s chest, he wheezes.

“You’re the worst,” Enjolras says. “This is all your fault.” Grantaire begins to laugh, but Enjolras pales at the shaking motion, so he quells his amusement.

“Pray, tell, Enjolras. How is this my fault?”

“You with your stupid hair and your stupid mouth and your being good at everything.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Of course it is,” Enjolras pouts and he sounds petulant now. “Also, I didn’t mean to say any of that. I hate you.”

“Well, thanks then, I guess. But I still don’t see how your current predicament is my fault.” He ignores the ‘I hate you’ comment, which he now knows to be completely untrue. (Nothing has ever made him happier.)

“Courfeyrac said vodka is the best medicine for heartache.” Grantaire can barely hear the mumbling. His hand stutters in Enjolras’s hair.

“Courfeyrac was wrong,” he says softly. “And I would know.”

“Then what is?” Enjolras asks in a sigh, leaning his forehead against Grantaire’s collarbone.

“I don’t know,” Grantaire says slowly. “But I’m sure we can figure it out. Together?” He can see Enjolras smile out of the corner of his eye.

“That might work.” He pauses. “When I don’t feel like throwing up, I’m going to kiss you.”

Grantaire feels his face flush and is grateful for the lack of eye contact as Enjolras makes another lunge for the trashcan. As he rubs Enjolras’s back, he can’t help but smile. “That can be arranged,” he says.

“Good,” Enjolras says, rather pathetically, bangs half-stuck to his forehead and his mouth curled in a sad pout. Grantaire could kiss him now. “I’m glad.”

“But until then,” he says with a smile, “come here.” He opens his arms and Enjolras returns to his spot nestled on Grantaire’s lap. For now, Grantaire places gentle kisses into golden curls.


End file.
